


Less Traveled By

by sansbanshees



Series: Wayfaring Stranger [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Sex, Arguing, Because I can, Elves in Kilts, F/M, Outlander AU, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tension, That Ends Up Not So Angry, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension, so much tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are other paths.</p><p>(Or, Evelyn finds herself tangled up with a different man entirely.)</p><p>Wayfaring Stranger AU drabbles and snippets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A shemlen woman is the last thing Abelas expects to see when he hears Felassan’s arrival at the mouth of the cave.

She is bound, on her knees and retching, his perfunctory wards offering a rough transition between the forest and the cave.

Had he a choice in the matter, he would not have cast them at all. He has little affinity for their protective nature, his own magic a harder, unrelenting thing, but with Solas out of commission, it is Abelas’s duty to step in and fill the void his injured leave.

The woman rises with Felassan’s assistance, and though Abelas has other concerns at the moment, her presence is not something he can accept without some manner of explanation.

“Why is she here?” He asks, careful to phrase the question in elvhen, eyes narrowed as his gaze flicks from the woman to Felassan.

“Because she’s nicer to look at than you are. Why do you _think_? Look at her hand.” Felassan replies in their tongue as well, and gestures to the woman in question.

There is—something. A shiver of familiar magic, though where he has felt it before, Abelas cannot say. That it resides within a shemlen’s control does not bode well. “And you brought her _here_? You should have killed her where she stood, you fool.”

“I don’t think you’d be saying that if you knew where I found her.”

Not for the first time, Abelas would very much like to wring his neck. He crosses his arms to stifle the urge. “Start from the beginning. Now.”

Felassan's eyes narrow. “I found her at the business end of Andruil's blade. Whatever that mark is, Andruil meant to claim it for herself, and you know as well as I do that such a thing could not be allowed. Hence, _here_. If you want to explain to Mythal how such power was tossed aside before we even found out what it was, or how she got it, by all means, go slit the shemlen's throat now and be done with it."

Felassan is not wrong. That does not mean that Abelas has to like it. “ _Fenedhis_.” Abelas slips back into a language the shemlen will understand. “See to your shemlen, while I see to Solas.” He waves Felassan away.

He expects her to cower, either in earnest, or to play the part of a guileless prisoner, but she does neither. She _interrupts_ him when he crouches beside Solas, with a preposterous claim of knowledge of healing magic.

He glares at her, anger ticking tight in his jaw.

“Try, then.”

He stands aside, fully prepared for her failure. Her people know nothing of magic; they wield it like fumbling children. In this, at least, there is little danger that she can make it worse. And if he can learn something of her in the process, it may spare her the fate of being left behind as a corpse.

She is—not unskilled. That is as complimentary as he will allow himself to be.

When Solas asks to assume responsibility of her, Abelas is tempted to say no; not because he thinks Solas unequal to the task, but because she is too unknown a quantity to leave outside of his direct control. It would be kinder to say yes. His own company lacks for warmth, and she has earned a measure of consideration for her aid.

Abelas looks to her in his moment of indecision, and she looks back, bold in the face of uncertain danger.

If nothing else, he can respect that. And there is a righteousness in her that he is hard-pressed to deny. He does not have to like it for it to be so.

She will never know the kindness he shows her by agreeing to Solas’s request.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme fic - Taking a Bath Together

This place is unsettling.

It should not be. Evelyn has spent a lifetime operating under scrutiny, and she has shared far more or herself than what a communal bath requires. Tears. Laughter. Everything in between. Every moment of her life, no matter how intimate, always in front of an audience. This, at least, is only skin.

Should anyone else arrive, that is.

For now, it is empty. It appears she has picked an ideal time to make use of the steaming, fragrant waters, though her solitude may not last long.

She ventures waist deep into the water, and allows herself a moment to simply breathe. Her eyes close, and she lets out a deep sigh, heat seeping into her muscles, into her bones, lulling her into a relaxation she hasn’t known since… she cannot remember when.

That she is alive at all is a miracle in itself. The mark on her hand is quieted, and seems to pose no immediate danger.

That she is partaking of a communal bath thousands of years before from her own time is, logically speaking, an impossibility—and yet, she is here.

Partaking.

She doubts that the knowledge will ever fail to floor her.

Rather than make use of the benches carved into the sides of the massive pool, Evelyn tilts back until her feet leave the floor, the small stature of her body floating weightless on the surface of the water. It is a practice she has not indulged in a long time—the baths in the Circle were so rarely empty—but here and now, she takes advantage.

It can only be moments, but it feels like hours, drifting from one end of the pool to the other, the vast, sunlit room unearthly silent, save the quiet swish of the water as she drifts across the surface.

A sudden displacement in the water makes her gasp, and she wrenches her weight down, struggling to find her footing. She makes no move to cover herself when she whips around to identify what, or whom, has joined her. Modesty is a concept she lost touch with long ago.

“Peace, shemlen.” Abelas stands before her, hands lifted in a placating gesture at her violent turn. “I seek no quarrel with you.”

She wills herself to focus on his lifted hands, his slender wrists, his completely unguarded expression—as if he is genuinely surprised at _her_ surprise—because her eyes will seek out the rest of him like the traitors they are if she does not. “No? Then why didn’t you tell me you were here?” 

“This place is for _all_ , to come and go as they please.” He crosses his—very lean, finely muscled—arms in front of his bare chest. His eyes have not narrowed yet, but one cross word from her and the gold of his irises will all but disappear. It is a power she finds herself exercising often—and not always by accident. “I owe you no announcement.”

For a moment, she considers mirroring his posture, taking it further with a jut of her hip just to be obstinate, just to see his lip curl. What stops her is the nagging reminder that this place is not hers. She is a guest. If anyone belongs here, it is him.

She takes a breath, and forces her eyes to meet his. “You scared me.” It is not even close to an apology. She wonders if she might be physically incapable of the act in his presence.

“I did not intend to.” He says, equally incapable, though his arms drop to his sides.

She eyes him warily for a moment, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

He stares back, still as the statues within the temple’s interior.

“I’m—” She sighs. This is going to hurt. “I’m sorry. This is your home, not mine. I’ll try to remember that.”

He looks away. “I am… also sorry.” It seems to pain him as much as it does her to say the words.

She snorts a laugh at the rigid apology, her guard slipping just enough for her gaze to lower.

The water—is very clear, and Abelas is…

Well.

Objectively, he is not unappealing. He is all lean, firm muscle, broad shoulders and a slender waist, pale skin, and—

 _And_.

Objectively.

She jerks her gaze up to a safer place, somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. “Right. Good.” She pushes past him without another word, water rippling in her wake.

He says nothing else, and makes no move to stop her as she drags herself out of the water.

She keeps her back to him, and wrings the water from her hair, purposefully taking her time, if only to create the illusion that she is unaffected. She pulls on her shift, and starts towards the doorway, but lingers just outside of it, caught in indecision. Something about this feels unfinished.

After a moment of hesitation, she turns, and looks back. 

He is sunk down, sitting on one of the benches, his fingers making quick work of freeing the significant length of his hair from the braid he favors. It is such an unguarded moment, one she feels a little guilty for watching, but the longer she looks, the more human he seems. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

It occurs to her that she ought to say something, thank him, perhaps, for bringing her here, for guiding her through the rituals to petition Mythal, rituals that could have been her end, had one false move been taken. He did not do it for _her_ , she knows that, but without his help, she might not be standing here.

Before she can say anything, she hears him sigh, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound as he sinks further down, his head tilting back to lean against the edge of the pool. Something tells her he does not make that sound very often.

Her thanks can wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

“This is not subject to debate. It is an _order_.”

After an hour of arguing, that is what finally makes Evelyn see red.

“You can’t order me! I’m not one of your people.” She seethes, pushing forward only to stop just short of his chest. She has to tilt her head back to glower, her eyes burning like coals. “What if something happens? What if someone dies because I wasn’t there? What if Solas dies, or—or Felassan? Or _you_?”

He glares right back, his jaw held so tight she could swear she hears his teeth grinding. “Then we die, shemlen.”

She should have known better than to appeal to his sense of self-preservation. The idiot doesn’t seem to have one.

“I’m going.” She whirls around, stalks towards the table and snatches up the bag she has only just emptied from her walk outside the temple, tossing in bundles of herbs, potions, poultices—anything that might be of use for the damage she imagines they will take. “I dare you to try and stop me.”

It occurs to her after she has said it that she may have gone too far, this time. When she pauses to cinch up the bag, she hazards a glance to where Abelas stands.

She has never seen him this angry. His face is red, his hands are curled into fists, and he is glaring daggers at the table she plucked her supplies from. It would not surprise her in the least if it burst into flame.

“You need me.” She tries again, softer this time, gentling her voice. “I can help.”

“You cannot fight. You can barely defend.” Abelas stalks forward. “You are a risk. You will put us at risk.” He does not stop until he towers directly over her, his features set in a stern glare.

He is right. She is not a fighter, not in the way that he is a fighter. But to imply that she is helpless? That she would endanger anyone?

“My barriers are fine! Better than fine. Ask Solas, if you don’t believe me.” She sets her bag down at the end of the table, and lifts her head to return the glare. "I'm going."

“Evelyn, you are not!” His eyes widen right along with hers as soon as the words leave his mouth.

He has never called her that before. _Do not test me, shemlen_ , he says. _This is to be your domain for the time being, shemlen_ , he told her, when she assumed a temporary role as one of the temple’s healers until her future could be determined. She has wondered for some time now if he is even aware that she has a name.

Apparently, he is.

For a moment, neither of them speak. The glare recedes from both of their faces by degrees, though the color in his cheeks only seems to darken, breath close to heaving. The look on his face, caught somewhere between angry and flustered, it pulls at something inside of her, and before she realizes precisely what she is doing, it is already too late.

Her hand reaches up, fingers slipping beneath his braid to curl around nape of his neck, and she drags him down as she rises up to the tips of her toes to meet him. The noise he makes before their lips meet sounds vaguely panicked, but he moves in tandem with her to close the distance, and when they reach each other, it is more collision than kiss.

He fists a hand in the loose waves of her hair, his lips working against the fervent press of hers, as much a battle of wills as every other interaction they have, only this one does not seem to have any clear drawbacks to losing.

She tugs his bottom lip between her teeth, and he growls—actually _growls_ —before he picks her up, her thighs parting instinctively around him, tightening around his hips as he balances her on the very edge of the table. She reaches back, sweeping away the bag, bundled herbs, vials she only just filled today, spilling the lot of it without a care for the work she's made for herself later, and slams a hand down behind her back for leverage.

“This does not...” He kisses her fiercely, fingers anchoring beneath her jaw to tilt her head as he moves down to suck at the pulse in her throat. “My decision—has not changed, shemlen.”

As if that is her plan. As if any of this was planned. She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs to drag him closer. “Neither has mine.” She reaches down, fumbling between their bodies for the smallest measure of contact, fingers stroking along the heavy fabric covering the hard length of his cock. His breath catches, and his hips jerk towards her touch. “Just—Oh, just fuck me already.”

And it hits her, right then, like a pommel to the side of her head, how much she wants this. How much she wants him. It has been there for months, but she has never been able to pin down precisely what she feels—and she still can’t, but pressed this close, his teeth scraping at her throat, the heat of his mouth sucking a bruise into her skin, she cannot stand it anymore.

And neither can he, for the moment her demand is uttered, his grip on her thigh loosens, and he reaches over to pull at her skirt, clear away what he can of it to drag her smallclothes to the side and sink two fingers into the heat of her cunt, a helpless groan muffled against her throat when she clenches down around him.

She cries out, the hand that is braced against the table trembling, ready to give at the shock of friction inside of her when he thrusts his fingers. “Ah—Maker, just… oh, just—”

“Fuck you?” He bites at her jaw, her chin, crushes his lips to hers, his tongue licking into her mouth as she moans. "Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule'din, Da'mi."

Evelyn has no idea what that means, but it sounds like a promise, which is good in _theory_ , but she wants action. "Shut up and do it—"

He covers her mouth with his in a brutal kiss, swallows her whimper when he pulls his fingers out of her to lift his kilt and take himself in hand, the blunt head of his cock lining up to nudge at her entrance. He sinks into her with a hard thrust, one that jars her back from the edge of the table, forces a moan from her throat. Her braced hand finally gives, and her elbow slams down to take the brunt of her weight.

His hand snakes up from between her legs to rest against the pale column of her throat, thumb pressing at the flutter of her pulse. He draws his hips back, snaps them forward, his lips parting around a low, rumbling groan.

"Like this?" His voice is rough, heavy with heat. "Or would you prefer a featherbed and silken bedclothes?"

She would laugh, but she is too preoccupied with the blissful stretch of his cock inside of her. Even now, he is _such_ an ass, not a charming bone in his body, but—she likes him, his honesty, his complete lack of tact, how he teases her, in his blunt and graceless way. He could fuck her against the rough stone wall of the dingy cave they met in, and she would like it just fine. Better than fine.

Not that she will ever tell him that.

“Harder would be good, if—” She does laugh now, halting and breathy, at the hard, if shallow thrust he grants her. “If you can manage it.”

His hand leaves her throat to grip her hip, drag her back to balance precariously at the edge of the table. “I can manage it, Da’mi. Can you?”

She opens her mouth to urge him on, but his next thrust forces the air from her lungs, the words from her mind, and her head falls back when he does it again, and again, fucking her at a relentless pace that might be painful if she was not positively dripping, if he was not angling his thrusts to hit a spot inside of her that makes her vision blur at the edges, heat coiling low in her belly faster than she would have thought.

“Oh, fuck… Abelas—” She clutches at his back, hand shaking as he hooks his arm beneath her knee to open her up, spread her wider, and she tries to meet his thrusts, she tries, but his question was an apt one—it is almost too much, and she bites down hard on her lip to focus on something else before she comes too soon.

“Again.” The hand he’d been bracing his weight against reaches between them, the angle awkward and strained, but the rough pad of his thumb presses down hard just above her clit, rolls in tight circles that make her choke back a sob. “Say it again.”

The heat in his voice, the sliver of need buried beneath it—it sharpens the pleasure pulsing from her cunt to an almost painful edge.

“A—Abelas—” She shivers, her hips jerking forward, seeking more, though she is not certain she will survive any more of this. “Tell me you’re close, I—I need to…”

He laughs. “Then do it, already.”

She huffs a shaky laugh at the mimic of her earlier demand. “ _Make_ me.”

Abelas scoffs—or tries to, the sound of it too raw to be scathing. “As if you can be _made_ to do anything.” But he slows his pace just enough to favor deep, steady thrusts, hips grinding into her at the end of each one, his thumb slipping down further to brush against the swollen bud of her clit.

It sounds too much like a compliment to be an insult, but the minute she opens her mouth to tease him for liking it, a hiccuping little sob cuts off her words, and she can feel herself start to shake, dizzy at the onslaught of pleasure. Her eyes clench shut, and her mouth falls open, the leg he is not holding up winding tight around his hip, her heel digging into the swell of his ass to spur him on.

“Yes—Abelas, don’t… don’t stop—” She stops just short of begging, please on the tip of her tongue, and the sound he makes, heady and desperate, is all it takes.

She comes with a desperate wail, back bowing with the force of pleasure that washes over her, hips jerking against his as he fucks her through it, his own rhythm fraying, but he rolls her right into another peak that makes her sob. He jerks his hand away from her clit, lifts it to frame one side of her face, and when she opens her eyes, his are shut tight, his brow furrowed, his lips parted in a rough, wordless groan. 

She tugs her leg free of his hold, drags him down to capture his lips with her own when his hips stutter and jerk to a hard stop as he spills into her. She wraps her arms around him, a gesture he returns with a ginger hold, as if he is uncertain of her intentions. She laughs softly, and winds herself tighter around him, her ankles locking at the small of his back, their panted breaths the only sound in the room. He gives in then, tightens his hold and buries his face into her hair.

"I must go.” His voice eventually breaks the silence, words spoken softly. “The others await orders.”

“But—”

He shakes his head. “No. Not this time.” He draws back to gaze at her, and though there is a softness in his expression that she has never seen before, he is still insufferably firm in his answer.

“Fine.” She presses her forehead to his, mouth quirking up in a crooked a grin. “Don’t be surprised when I steal a hart and show up anyway.”

“You are welcome to try, Da’mi.” He says, his mouth pulling back in a fond, if exasperated smirk. “You may not appreciate the consequences.”

“What does that mean? Da’mi?” She asks. He has called her that too many times now, and her curiosity is piqued.

He chuckles. “It means that you are a thorn in my side when you wish to have your way.”

The fact that he’s given her anything close to an endearment brings a rush of heat to her cheeks, and she knows he can see it. She might have cared about that before, but now… Well. She does not care as much. “So only some of the time?”

He snorts a laugh.

She sighs. “Go, then. And come back alive, all of you, or you will rue the day you told me no.”

He presses his lips to hers one last time, a gentler kiss that makes her stomach flutter. “I expect nothing less.”

 

 

 _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din_ \- I will fuck you until you have no endurance left.

 _Da’mi_ \- Little blade, one who is stubborn, one who goes after what they want without regard for the consequences

Elvhen courtesy of FenxShiral’s Project Elvhen


	4. unbearably practical

He is holding flowers. Crystal Grace to be precise, and more bouquet than bundle. And he is not just holding them, he is offering them. To her.

They’re beautiful, a delicate shade of blue and shaped like bells, the tinkling of which she can almost hear as they sway when she accepts them with a curious tilt of her head. For a moment, she doesn't know what to say. This is the first time she has seen Abelas, since...

Well.

At last count, it has been nearly a month. It took less than a day for Evelyn to convince herself that it was a one time occurrence, despite the near sweetness it ended in. But looking at him now, though there is nothing overtly flowery in his demeanor apart from the actual flowers...

She wonders if he’s come straight here from the stables. It seems that way. He looks every bit the weary traveler, his face and hands smudged with dirt, his clothes faded and fraying, the usual shine of his hair dulled with the build up of oil and yet more dirt, his braid fraying as much as his clothes. The blood stains are troubling, but he doesn’t appear to be in pain.

"What are these for?" she asks, despite the obvious answer he is likely to give. She has given up assuming anything where his intentions are concerned.

"The others were crushed, were they not?" He looks almost sheepish at the explanation. "The fault was mine."

She almost laughs. He’s right, they were. She did not discover the loss until he’d already gone, most of the petals mangled beyond use, though it was her own weight that did the damage. How he noticed when she didn’t… "I think it was mine, actually. I did start it, after all." Her impulsive decisions are normally cause for regret. Whether she regrets kissing him or anything that came after remains to be seen, but somehow, she doubts that she will be able to.

She lifts the flowers to her nose and inhales the sweet scent. They’re still fresh, only recently gathered, and the image of Abelas deliberately gathering up each one only makes her smile. It is not something she would have ever imagined him doing, least of all out of consideration for her.

“Thank you.” Trinkets have their place and she is not averse to them, but practicality has always suited her better. It means something to her that he notices enough to infer as much on his own. “I’ve always liked working with these.”

"You are welcome,” he says stiffly, as terrible at receiving gratitude as she normally is to offer it.

For a moment, there is silence.

He looks her over, something like a smile warming in his eyes. “You look well.”

She tries to imagine what it is he sees when he looks at her. Mossy green eyes beset by flecks of brown. A small, rounded nose. A mouth as wide as it is loud, the thinner bow of her upper lip set gently above the full curve of the bottom one. Pale skin. A small chin that juts out defiantly more often than not.

Round, human ears.

Not—bad, but nothing like the other women here.

And also not worth dwelling on.

"You don't." She sets the flowers down on the same table the others perished upon, a decision forming with little in the way of deliberation as she takes in his appearance once more. "Is any of that blood yours?” It may not be what he came here for, but she isn’t letting him leave without at least a cursory look at his injuries.

He glances down, as if he’s forgotten the blood. “Some.”

“I thought as much.” Evelyn tugs at the cuff of his sleeve. “Take it off.”

Were he anyone else, she would expect a crack about this being a convenient way to get him naked, but he simply tugs his shirt over his head and pulls it off, though he winces at the strain on a wound she can’t yet see.

The back of his shirt looks far worse than the front. The fabric is shredded, stained dull red with still drying blood. His chest and arms are littered with tiny cuts and a few bruises, but they are nothing compared to the evidence of what she should expect to find on his back.

Of course he would ignore it in favor of flowers.

She rolls her eyes, a fond smile pulling at the edges of her mouth. “Turn around.”

She expects a mess of gore when he turns, but there was at least an attempt made to close the five gouged lines curving down from the middle of his back towards his hip before he got here.

She leans in for a closer look, one hand braced against his back as she studies his wounds. They aren’t from a weapon—not one she knows of, at least. And she can’t imagine his guard slipping enough to allow five strikes in the same area. “What happened?”

He hesitates, as if he doesn’t want to answer her. She feels his muscles tense at the question.

“There was a bear.”

She blinks. “You fought a bear?” Unless ancient bears are different from the bears in her time, she can’t imagine a reason compelling enough to stay and fight when running away is an option. She has run afoul of bears before, between the Circle and the Conclave. Barriers only do so much—running is all that ever saved her from a sticky end. A recurrent theme of her life, it seems. “How are you not dead?”

“My will was greater.” As if that is all it would ever take to emerge victorious.

“You’re ridiculous.” She shakes her head and draws on her magic, the tips of her fingers glowing a faint blue. She starts with the bottom wound and works her way up, focusing as she wills his skin to mend beneath her touch, sinewy fibers tugging and knitting together until all that remains are five faint pink lines. “You’re also lucky this wasn’t worse.”

“It would not allow me to retrieve my quarry.” He sounds vaguely offended, a frown tugging his mouth downward when he turns around. “I did not provoke it lightly.”

“You _provoked_ it?” It is all she can do not to palm her face in exasperation.“Why? What could you possibly have needed that badly?”

He looks away.

And then it sinks in.

Evelyn looks to the blue, bell shaped flowers he brought. Apparently after dispatching a bear for them. “Abelas.”

She places her hands on his shoulders , drags herself up to the tips of her toes and presses her lips to his when he turns to look at her. At first, he is still. And then he bends, tilts his head to ease the strain of her legs to reach him. He reaches up to cup the back of her head, his fingers slipping into the loose bun her dark brown hair is held in. She lays a hand on his chest and curls her other arm around his side to draw herself closer.

“You’re still ridiculous,” she murmurs when they break apart. “Don’t do that again.”

He scoffs, but the sound lacks conviction. “You cannot order me.”

“Yes I can.” Her smile widens. “If only because I live to irritate you.”

That makes him laugh. “And so the truth finally emerges.”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t like it.”

He smiles. “When have I ever said that I did not?”

She darts in to kiss him once more before withdrawing to tend to his smaller wounds. It is the work of moments, they smooth away as if they were no more than spatters of paint.

A thought occurs to her as she closes the last one. “Did you save the hide?”

He fixes her with a suspicious look. “Why do you ask?”

“...it’s drafty in here sometimes.”

“Ever practical, da’mi.” He does not smile, exactly, but there is a smugness about his expression.

“But you saved it, right?” She does not mind it so much anymore, that smug look. There is something almost charming about it. Almost. “I know you. You wouldn’t leave it to rot, not if it’s useful.”

She often thinks it’s half the reason he didn’t leave her in the woods to be hunted down by Andruil. His reasons have evolved since then, of course. Still. Practical. She’s hardly complaining.

Not now, at least.

He casts her a dubious look. “And what use will you have for me with such a large fur to keep you warm at night?”

“I can think of a few,” she muses, glancing aside as she ponders each one with a smile. “But since you mention it, it might be nice to have something to keep me warm when you’re not here.”

It might have scared her before, how much she means that, but now... They have never spent so much as a single hour together, let alone a night. She already dislikes the thought of his absence.

It seems strange to think there was a time when his absence was all she could imagine appreciating about him.

“I am often away,” he says, considering her statement. “Perhaps the hide can still be retrieved.”

She snorts. “You already have it.”

He sighs.

She does not bother to hide her grin. “You do.”

“I do.” He draws her closer to rest his chin on her head as her arms wrap around him. “But you must make do with me alone until it is finished.”

She hums in agreement.

“I suppose I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I appreciate every kudo and comment so far. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't know what happened here. The idea of the two of them came out of nowhere and it refuses to leave me alone.
> 
> Also, I really like AUs.


End file.
